Blood of the Isir Omnibus

by Erik Henry Vick

  “The yarl would become an owsnertanleg.”

  “A what?” I asked.

  “He would be shunned—cast out of the caste system all together.” He shrugged. “In practice, that means he would become someone lower than a thrall. He wouldn’t be allowed to serve a karl or trade with one. He would have to become the property of some thrall in order to survive.”

  “And the thrall?” I asked.

  “He would be a valued member of some yarl’s household.”

  “But would still be a thrall?”

  Mothi nodded. “Yes, it is so.”

  “Hmm. You and your father are taller and broader than the karls we fought. In general, is there a visible difference between the castes.”

  “Yes. Father told you about the Isi’s plague?”

  “Yeah, he said it killed the Vanir and ensured the health of the Isir.”

  “It did more than ensure the health of his army. Isi was always a paranoid leader. He never wanted his leaders and scientists—his chosen, you understand—to be displaced by the officers of the army. In the same vein, he didn’t want the common fighters to displace his officers. His plague made certain changes to each group. To the thralls, he gave great endurance and the ability to heal quickly and resist pain. To the karls, he gave the gifts of the thralls, plus greater size and health, and increased intelligence and planning ability. To the yarls, he gave the gifts of the other two castes, but in greater amounts, plus the ability to vefa strenkir af krafti, increased creativity and the qualities of natural leadership. Plus, we have the longest life spans, living two or three times longer than karls. Karls live two or three times longer than thralls, who live about a century.”

  “Wait a second, here, Mothi. You said Isi gave the ability to become vefari only to the yarls?”

  “Yes, that’s right, only yarls can become vefari.”

  I shook my head. “But I am able to. How do you explain that?”

  Mothi glanced over at me with a twinkle in his eye. “Not all men are monks,” he said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You are a descendant of the Viking people, yes?”

  “I suppose you could say that, although how pure that lineage is I don’t know.”

  “There’s the answer, though. My people visited your ancestors. Many times. For long periods, sometimes.”

  “And? What does that have to do with me?”

  Mothi grinned. “Some Viking women are quite beautiful.”

  I shook my head and scoffed. “You don’t mean—”

  “Yes,” he said. “You have the blood of the Isir in your veins. You are a yarl.”

  That was not something I’d expected to hear, and I had no idea how to explain it. “So, technically speaking, we could be related? You could be my million-times-great-grandfather?”

  He shrugged with a grin. “It’s possible.” He sobered. “You could also be related to the Dark Queen or Luka or none of the yarls we know.”

  “And you have all known this for how long?”

  “You don’t see the similarity? Think of the thralls you’ve seen, and then next the karls. Which caste do you seem the most like?”

  It was obvious once he put me on the track. I nodded. “But still, many Scandinavians share similar characteristics.”

  “Ask Mother Yowrnsaxa if you want to hear more specifics of your lineage. She can use her gift to find more details.”

  “Yep,” I grunted. I rode the rest of the trip to Veethar and Frikka’s estate in silence, my mind awhirl with speculation.

  The estate was a few miles northeast of the town square, smack dab in the center of a large woodland. The forest was chock-a-block with different species of trees, from alder to yew trees and everything in between. The road was well-traveled and well-maintained and threaded around clumps of trees as if the timber took precedence over the straightness of the road. Given that it was Veethar’s wood, I decided that made a certain amount of sense. God of the Forest and all that.

  Frikka led us around one such copse of timber, and the road opened up on both sides, widening to create a broad meadow. A ten-foot-high stone wall ringed the meadow, with gates standing open across the road. The road passed through the estate and then off through the trees to the north. Multiple buildings stood inside the gates, some given over to the breeding and raising of horses, others less obvious in their intent, but all were dwarfed by a massive stone-walled longhouse that was easily twice the length of a football field and stood at least three stories in height. Unlike the town, the compound showed no signs of a battle—no smoldering fires, no frost or ice, no blood.

  “Welcome to our home,” said Frikka.

  “The raiders couldn’t find you?” asked Meuhlnir with approval in his voice.

  “No, the glamor has held, it seems. Veethar refreshed it just before his trip west.” Frikka walked her horse up to a waiting groomsman and dismounted. “See to their horses,” she said.

  After I had dismounted and handed my reins to a diminutive man with dark hair, I walked over to Mothi and indicated the groomsmen. “Thralls?” I whispered.

  He dipped his head and then jerked his chin toward the stable. A larger man stood there, watching the groomsmen gather the horses. He was perhaps half a head shorter than Mothi, and about fifty pounds lighter. “A karl,” Mothi grunted. “The foreman, no doubt, serving under contract.”

  Sif stood next to Frikka, eyeing the way I was standing and walking. She grunted her approval and then turned to Frikka. “Veethar is not here?”

  “No,” said Frikka. “He went to Takmar’s Horse Plains to capture new breeding stock. I swear he goes on these trips to avoid having to talk to anyone.”

  “What a time to be away,” said Meuhlnir. “I bet he’d be on his way home if he knew what happened here today.”

  “Yes, but unless my premonition was false, you’ve come here for a bigger purpose than rebuilding Trankastrantir.”

  Meuhlnir bowed his head. “Your augury was true, Frikka.”

  “Then we will not speak of what happened today to Veethar.”

  “Do you think that is wise?” asked Yowrnsaxa in a restrained voice.

  Frikka shrugged. “I know my husband and so do you. He would demand that we first seek revenge for this attack on our city. Why argue when we can avoid the issue?” She arched her eyebrow and gazed at Yowrnsaxa. “Now, tell me why you’ve come.” She beckoned them inside the stone-walled longhouse and led them to a small, comfortable room. She snapped her fingers and waved the thralls out of the room.

  “Luka has brought another to Osgarthr,” said Meuhlnir.

  Frikka looked at me, and I nodded.

  “Luka has been very…active on Hank’s klith. He and the Dark Queen have been living there for at least several centuries, and have been breaking the Ayn Loug there.”

  Frikka grimaced and looked away. “Is it time? You finally see the need?” she asked Meuhlnir.

  “Yes,” he said. “Luka has kidnapped Hank’s wife and son and brought them to Osgarthr—hostages to ensure Hank would run the Reknpokaprooin.”

  “Luka, Vowli, or the Dragon Queen?” asked Frikka.

  “I haven’t run into Vowli yet, but Luka and the queen had quite a setup on my klith,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter if Luka did it on his own or not,” said Sif. “They are all acting in concert now that Hank is here. Besides, it isn’t as if we can do battle with one without doing battle with them all.”

  Frikka grunted and nodded. “I won’t be involved with any more half-measures. Neither will Veethar.”

  “No, that we are at this junction yet again proves that half-measures are only a delaying tactic,” said Yowrnsaxa. She shook her head, looking sad.

  “Doesn’t anyone believe that those three are worth rehabilitating? Shouldn’t they be allowed to choose to abandon their dark ways?” asked Meuhlnir.

  The room was silent for a few moments as the women looked back and forth between themselves.

>   “We can speak more of it later,” said Sif. “Tell me, Frikka, what path to the Horse Plains does your husband travel? North to Suelhaym proper, across the pass through the Dragon’s Spine and, finally, through the Great Wood of Suel?”

  “I’d prefer not to travel north and encounter the Dark Queen’s forces again,” said Meuhlnir. “We’ve played her games long enough.”

  Frikka nodded in agreement. “Veethar has another route—a secret proo into Skalabrekka, known only to members of our house. He travels north onto the plains from there.”

  “And your collection of preer is unmolested?” asked Meuhlnir as if the answer held no importance.

  “Yes,” said Frikka. “I used one this morning to check on our breeding projects in Alfhaym. I assume yours is not since you’re here on horseback.”

  Mothi’s eyebrows shot upwards. “You are breeding horses with the Alfar?”

  Frikka flashed a wicked little grin at him. “Yes, little Mothi. Can you guess our goals?”

  Mothi boomed laughter. “Will the offspring have more than four legs? Maybe have a fiery disposition?”

  Frikka winked at him. “They are such an interesting breed, the demon-horses of Muspetlshaymr.”

  “Any results?”

  “Now that you ask, yes, one of the demon-mares will give birth in a week or so. That in itself is a triumph.” Frikka laughed. “Then again, just getting one of our horses to mate with a demon-mare has been a trial beyond the limits of sanity.”

  Mothi gave an exaggerated sigh. “And what must I trade to have a chance at this demon-mare?”

  Frikka looked at him, suddenly the shrewd trader. “Perhaps the use of one of your fine stallions as stud?”

  “Not to interrupt the consummate demonstration of horse trading, but perhaps we can get back to the issue at hand?” asked Meuhlnir in a dry voice.

  Frikka nodded and bowed, failing to hide a satiric grin. “Whatever you wish.”

  “Given that the queen is not shy about recruiting others to do her fighting, I wonder if we shouldn’t consider the same,” said Yowrnsaxa.

  “I don’t think so,” said Meuhlnir. “We don’t want to fight a war, not if we don’t have to. A small group has a better chance of being overlooked, especially if we employ a bit of misdirection and stealth.”

  “What kind of misdirection?” asked Frikka.

  “A glamor,” said Meuhlnir. “We want the Dark Queen to see us traveling north toward Suel, while we use the preer in secret.”

  “A sound strategy,” said Mothi.

  “How would we keep such a glamor in place? How could we make it convincing enough that the Dark Queen would follow it instead of looking harder for us?” asked Yowrnsaxa.

  “We would imbue the glamor onto an object—like I’ve done with my ring—and have a group of karls carrying it to Suel,” said Meuhlnir in a matter of fact tone.

  “Dangerous for the karls,” I said.

  “We could give them items that would help them battle the Dark Queen’s troops,” said Meuhlnir. “That would mitigate the danger.”

  “And require a trip to Nitavetlir,” said Mothi with a pouting expression on his face. “I always get a crick in my neck.”

  “First, we would need to find the karls willing to do this for us,” said Meuhlnir, glancing at Frikka.

  “What would happen if we had Alfar do this instead?” asked Frikka.

  “That could work as well,” said Meuhlnir. “Why? Do you think it will be easier to convince the Alfar than your karls?”

  Frikka looked at him as if he were the dumbest man alive. “Did you not see Trankastrantir?”

  “Good point,” he muttered. “Alfar it is then.”

  Thirty-five

  Later that evening, after a big meal and a long soak in a tub full of near boiling water, I stood in a stone-lined room in the basement of Frikka and Veethar’s longhouse. Each stone of the wall was inset with a strip of metal worked in the shape of a rune. The runes glowed with a subtle light of their own.

  Frikka touched one, and an oval of shimmering silver expanded in the center of the room. “Each of these stones is anchored to a different proo,” she said.

  “Is there another proo to my klith hiding in one of these runes? Besides the Kyatlerproo?” I asked.

  “Mithgarthr? Yes, there is a proo to there in our collection but not to your time.” Frikka’s voice was a silky contralto that reminded me of my first girlfriend and the summer I turned fourteen.

  I swallowed hard. “More side trips to the Vikings?”

  Meuhlnir glanced at me with irritation twitching in the muscles around his eyes. “This proo leads to Alfhaym,” he said. “Before we go, you should know that the Alfar are nothing like their dark cousins, the Svartalfar. They are about as close in temperament as Luka and me. They are a wholesome, light-hearted people, but when provoked, they can be savage. Their laws are governed by the Law of Retaliation, so it is best not to run afoul of them.”

  “Law of Retaliation? Sounds ominous.”

  “I don’t expect it to be an issue. Don’t mention the Svartalfar—let me speak of that. They are inquisitive and love to learn new things. They will no doubt have many questions for you about your life and the interactions you had with the Dark Queen and my brother.”

  I nodded. Meuhlnir clapped me on the back and stepped through the proo. It was the first time I’d seen anyone use a proo—I’d used one, true enough, but I didn’t see what happened. I’d expected something like you’d see in a science fiction movie—maybe the particles of his body being pulled forward at the speed of light, or the flashy transporter effects from Star Trek. Instead, as his skin made contact with the surface of the proo, everything about him froze—his expression, his eyes, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, even his nostrils froze mid-flair. Then he was gone, and the air popped, simple as that. No fading out, no flashes of light, no funny science fiction sounds, just gone.

  I glanced at Mothi, who was looking at me with a slight grin on his face. “It’s impressive, I know,” he said and then reached forward to touch the proo, and he, too, disappeared.

  I shrugged at the women and walked forward into the proo. One second I was in an underground vault lined with runed stones, and in the next, I was standing in the most beautiful wood I’d ever seen. A magnificent forest of redwood trees surrounded us like sentinels. Their thick trunks seemed to stretch forever upwards, and their canopies were shrouded in a gentle mist that seemed somehow warm and welcoming rather than cold and wet. A few small vines hugged close to the ground, but other than that, there was no underbrush. The bark of the trees looked like ropes that were stretched between the ground and the green-swathed branches high overhead. The air was filled with the music of undisturbed woodland.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathed. After a moment of staring, I realized that the pain I had worn like a mantle for the past seven years was gone. Not reduced, gone.

  “You should see one of the protected glades,” said Mothi in an awed tone. “Though, not many outsiders are permitted to.”

  “Greetings, Isir.”

  The voice seemed to come from all around us and from nowhere at the same time. I put my hand on the Kimber .45 hanging on my right hip.

  “There’s no need,” whispered Meuhlnir. “The Alfar are friends.”

  “Indeed, Master of Thunder. Hello again, Mothi Strongheart. Have you more horses to trade?”

  “Not this time,” said Mothi.

  An Alf stepped from behind a tree to our left and walked over to clasp forearms with Mothi. “It’s no matter, Mothi. You are welcome any time.” The Alf reminded me somewhat of the Svartalfar we’d seen on the plains. He had the same disproportionate length limbs, but where the Svartalfar were hunched and crooked, the Alf stood straight with his shoulders back—a proud stance. He had the same too-long neck bracketed by large triangular trapezius muscles, but his skin was light instead of dark. It looked like fine Grecian marble—bright white with striations o
f a very light gray. His eyes were fulvous in color, and his hair was ivory tinged with blue. His features were as sharp as if they were chiseled from shale. He was dressed in brown leathers and wore a thin bladed sword and matching dagger in his belt.

  “Ah, Yowtgayrr, I thought that was you.”

  “If you aren’t here to trade horses, are you here to see what Frikka and Veethar are creating?”

  “I wish that were the reason for the visit,” said Meuhlnir. “I regret that events in Osgarthr have prompted us to come to Alfhaym seeking help.”

  “Ah,” said Yowtgayrr. “We no longer have a standing army, as you know Master of Thunder. Not since the Banishment of Suel.”

  Meuhlnir nodded. “I understand and respect your views on war. I’ve come to think you may be right over the past few centuries.”

  Yowtgayrr squinted at him for a moment, head cocked to the side. “Meaning no disrespect, your span is too short to understand our point of view. We sacrifice eons to give our lives in battle.”

  Meuhlnir bowed his head. “I do understand, Yowtgayrr, and if there were a way I could change what happened to your people in the last war, I would do so.”

  The Alf nodded. “Then we will speak no more of it, Master of Thunder.” He turned his brownish-orange eyes to me. “Who is your guest?”

  “This is a kanka-ee from Mithgarthr,” said Mothi. “He calls himself Hank Jensen.”

  I glanced quickly at Mothi—he rarely missed an opportunity to call me Aylootr, and I wondered why he didn’t call me that now. When I returned my gaze to Yowtgayrr, his gaze was intense, shrewd. His eyes seemed to spin like whirly-gigs in a light breeze. I didn’t like looking into those eyes, and I looked away in a hurry. My experience with the dragon was still too close.

  “Welcome, Hank Jensen,” he said with an air of formality. He offered his left hand, and I clasped his forearm the way I’d seen Mothi do. He held on for a moment, and his eyes grew vague. “Isir…” His eyebrows shot upwards, wrinkling the skin of his forehead. “Cousin to Mothi?” he said, glancing at Meuhlnir who nodded. “Cursed by…” He released my hand with a sudden anger and turned to Meuhlnir, face filled with fury.